Neither here nor there

The Doha airport is nothing special, in no way luxurious, at least in the parts I'm admitted. The toilets smell pretty awful and the floor is covered in an inch of water, which an attendant pushes around with a Squeegee. At least, they aren't the squats, or a trough, or a simple hole in the ground.

There's a prayer room, carpeted like a mosque, so I don't imagine I'm exactly welcome. But no worry, I did enough praying on the flight here to last a lifetime. A family room, a smoking room and quiet room follow the prayer room. This morning two gentlemen walked into the quiet room, which I have called home since 11 pm last night, and lit up. As they chatted away over a cigarette, I spoke up. The only Westerner in the room, seemingly, and the only person with any objection to cigarette smoke...or balls...I didn't ask that they leave. I ordered. They didn't speak English, but another quiet roomer motioned and translated. Quietly. And so they moved. They wore tunics and pants, and one had pink and orange hair, a dye job gone all wrong, I'm guessing. Nearing 7 hours of almost falling asleep, jerking myself awake every 20 minutes for fear of missing my flight, I was neither a pretty nor patient lot.

Moments later, I watched two Japanese women wheel their bags into the prayer room and set up shop. It seems I'm not the only one a bit turned around this morning.